


Birds of a Feather

by Kedreeva



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Fluff, Gen, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 05:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19166935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: A collection of unrelated platonic wing!fic involving Aziraphale and Crowley.





	1. Imping (Aziraphale)

**Author's Note:**

> I have chosen to stash all my wing!fic in one thread, rather than make a zillion one-shots. These are just for fun, because I have a deep and abiding love for all things bird, and being gifted not one but TWO main characters with wings and a great fondness for one another has been a wild ride.

            “What do you  _mean_  you don’t keep any molts?” Crowley exclaimed, too loudly for the cramped space of his flat's entryway. “Not one? Not even your leads?”

            Aziraphale gave him a look caught somewhere between indignant and embarrassed, and Crowley opened his door a little wider to let him into the flat properly. “It’s not exactly like we’ve had a lot of big battles lately,” Aziraphale told him as he slipped past him. “I haven’t broken a feather in… well, in ages!”

            Crowley scowled at the suggestion that this was a valid excuse, and followed him to where there was room to stand apart. “There are plenty of other ways to break a feather. Let me see it.”

            “I live and work in a  _bookstore_ , Crowley, it’s not exactly a daredevil lifestyle,” Aziraphale informed him primly, but his wing sagged open and then spread, stretching so Crowley could see the jagged feather shaft; all that remained of his largest primary.

            “And how’d you lose this one?” Crowley asked, taking the lead edge of his wing in one hand to hold it up, and touching gentle fingers to the raw break. It wouldn’t hurt; it hadn’t been a blood feather, at least.

            Aziraphale mumbled something unintelligible until Crowley fixed him with a pointed look, and then he pulled a face and refused to meet Crowley’s eyes. “I said,  _in the bookstore_ ,” Aziraphale admitted a touch waspishly. “I hit a shelf just wrong. Can you fix it?”

            “Fix it?” Crowley asked, still grinning at the idea that any angel, especially  _this_  one, could do so much damage by something so mundane. “What do you want me to do about it?”

            “Well, don’t you- can’t you pull it?”

 _That_  sobered Crowley up straight away. “You want me to pull your primary? Do you have any idea how much that would hurt?” The answer was  _far more than necessary_ , and they both knew it.

            “Why do you think I haven’t done it myself?” Aziraphale tugged his wing free of Crowley’s grasp to fold it up a little defensively. Even folded, the ruined feather was obvious.

            Crowley didn’t say so, however. He just studied Aziraphale carefully, wondering exactly what Aziraphale wanted from him. Their wings, unfortunately, were one thing neither one of them could just miracle into shape again. They had to be cared for manually, the same way injuries to their human bodies had to heal. Crowley supposed it kept angels and demons from having too many fights, if they had to take time to heal wings after skirmishes. It also meant that they could not dismiss accidental damage either. The only thing he could possibly offer was-

            Aziraphale made a small, frustrated noise, and made to move past Crowley for the door, obviously reconsidering having come here for help, and Crowley slid in front of him to stop him. “I can help,” he said, when Aziraphale looked up at him. “Wait here.”

 

* * *

 

            When Crowley returned from his back room, it was with a long, sleek black feather, a very sharp looking pair of scissors, a bottle of something Aziraphale could not see, and a small stick that looked kind of like a chopstick, but larger. He laid them all out on the desk and pulled out the chair. It had a high back and arms and didn’t look at all like a good suggestion for sitting in to mend a wing, but Aziraphale took a step toward it anyway.

            “Ah-ah,” Crowley said, eyes alight and a bit of a grin on his face. “On your knees, Angel.”

            Aziraphale hesitated. He trusted Crowley, he did, but… well, if there was anyone worth being a little vulnerable for, it was Crowley, so Aziraphale turned and knelt beside the desk. As soon as he’d gotten one knee down, he realized  _why_ , and lifted his right wing to lay it out flush with the top of the desk, careful of the supplies Crowley had brought. His brain caught up with  _that_  thought after a second more, and his whole body jerked, wing snapping almost closed, hindered by the edge of the desk.

            “You’re going to imp it?” Aziraphale said incredulously, glancing between Crowley and the large feather on the desk. “With one of your- your own feathers?”

            Crowley gave him an amused, if unimpressed smile. “I’d have done it with one of yours, but. Well. Maybe you’ll start a collection after this.” He paused, more than one emotion flickering across his face, and suddenly seemed much less sure of himself. “Is that not- is it not okay, me fixing your wing with…” He nodded toward the feather, sitting so innocently between them. “Will you be in trouble?”

            Aziraphale couldn’t imagine who he would be in trouble  _with_ , seeing as they had both abandoned their sides months ago and not heard a peep since. “No, no,” he rushed to assure him. “I just…” he spread his wing carefully back over the desk, “didn’t expect that, I suppose. I would be honored.”

            That seemed to give Crowley even greater pause than thinking he might get Aziraphale in trouble, but it did not last long. He waited until Aziraphale was kneeling comfortably, and then he spread Aziraphale’s primaries slightly beyond comfortable, to give clearance to the damaged shaft. Aziraphale closed his eyes, even though he knew it would not hurt, as Crowley snipped the jagged edge and made a nice, smooth end to work with.

            “Bugger,” Crowley said a moment later, and then rapped on Aziraphale’s wing bone. “You can relax, this one won’t fit, but I think I have one that will. Don’t move.”

            He disappeared back toward where Aziraphale assumed a bedroom would be, if Crowley were human. Aziraphale relaxed a little, shifting from knee to knee, and looking over his wing to see the clean cut Crowley had made. There had been a time, not so long ago, when mortal blades would not have cut his wings. He recalled, quite starkly, Beelzebub declaring  _he’s gone native_ , and he thought now that perhaps that was not entirely untrue.

            Or perhaps the scissors were just magicked enough for celestial wing care. Aziraphale would not put it past Crowley to have turned something so mundane into something so dangerous.

            Crowley appeared again before that thought could run any farther away from him, and Aziraphale straightened up and stretched his wing back out. Crowley glanced at him and then separated his primaries again, comparing the new feather to the cut shaft. He broke out into a grin.

            “That’ll do,” he declared. Aziraphale watched in fascination as Crowley quickly snipped the end of the shaft and then lifted the small not-chopstick, which Aziraphale recognized as a supporting bond the moment before Crowley slid one end of it into the open shaft of his shed feather and the other end to the open shaft of Aziraphale’s damaged one. “Perfect.”

            Crowley pulled all of it apart again, picked up the bottle of glue, and dabbed some along the support shaft. He got a little bit into each feather shaft as well, and then wiggled it all back together. The glue was just cold enough for Aziraphale to feel when it changed the temperature at the base of his feather, and the weight of the foreign material inside felt just a little off, but Crowley seemed pleased with the fit. He applied a little more glue to the outside of where the feathers connected, and then carefully wrapped it in what looked like a piece of paper but was much too soft to be so.

            “How long will it take to stabilize?” Aziraphale asked. His knees already hurt a little.

            Crowley slanted him a look, a grin playing at the edge of his lips. “We can’t miracle our wings, but,” he leaned over and puffed a little breath over the bonded feathers, and Aziraphale immediately felt the difference as the glue cured instantly and everything stuck in place, “I’ve a few trade secrets.”

            Aziraphale stood quickly, flexing his wing to feel the newly applied feather. It was starkly obvious, the huge black primary settled so snugly among his white ones, but he could hardly tell it was there with everything moving. “Oh, thank you,” he said in a rush, smiling brightly.

            “Come on, give it here a second,” Crowley said, reaching, and Aziraphale opened his wing for inspection. Crowley grabbed the base of the repaired feather and gently peeled away the strange bandage. It had kept the glue from sticking out, kept it smooth to the shaft so nothing would catch when his feathers moved. Crowley always had been good at the little details. “Good as new, I’d say.”

            “Better, I think,” Aziraphale said, gently pulling his wing from Crowley’s grasp. Crowley’s fingers lingered to the last second, and then Aziraphale folded his wings behind him and ducked his head a little, embarrassed anew. “From now on, I’ll make sure to save a few molted feathers, just in case.”

            And although he did not say it, he knew exactly which feather would be the first in his collection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This now has [beautiful artwork](https://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/186033706348) by [aeyriabird](https://aeyriabird.tumblr.com)!
> 
> [Original Tumblr Ficlet](https://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/185484610123).


	2. Twisted Feather (Crowley)

            Aziraphale notices it in the morning, when they meet up for breakfast. Crowley is slouched back on his chair almost sideways, one arm stretched as much as it possibly can be along the back of it, and one leg thrown out under the table. His foot rests close to Aziraphale’s as though it is an accident, but the frequency of that positioning had gone past accidental and coincidental right into intentional a long time ago. He looks, at first glance, quite comfortable, except for the fact that his wing keeps twitching like the fur of a cat you’ve just looked at and thought about petting.

            “Are you alright?” he asks, as innocuously as possible. If Crowley thinks he’s prying, he’ll just clam up tighter.

            “Fine,” Crowley says tightly, and it is very clear he’s not. A thousand years ago, he might have left it at that, but it’s been a strange few weeks following the apocalypse and neither one of them is quite who they used to be anymore. “It’s been too quiet.”

            “It’s only been a few weeks,” Aziraphale points out, relaxing a little. Of course Crowley is twitchy. Since the kidnapping, they had been left to their own devices, but demons were so suspicious of everything even when there was nothing to be suspicious of that when there  _was_  something to suspect, it drove Crowley up a wall.

            So he lets it drop until almost dinner, when Crowley drops by the book shop and sprawls against a door frame to talk to him, a wing in each room to take up as much space as possible, and he still looks out of sorts. Aziraphale thinks perhaps he’s still bothered, until he realizes that Crowley hasn’t been this bothered, not since they knew there was an incoming problem. He’d been a little jumpy right after the kidnapping, for a few days, but they had done well swapping faces. They had earned some quiet, and nothing in Heaven or Hell moved so fast as to come for them again yet anyway. Aziraphale knew Gabriel wouldn’t, and he’d given the demons enough of a fright to know they wouldn’t come knocking soon.

            Which meant, Aziraphale thinks, that this is something else.

            Since Crowley had not greeted him upon entrance or told him why he was there, Aziraphale had merely continued to read and wait. He watches Crowley from the corner of his eye, until he sees the next little uncomfortable roll of his shoulder against the door frame.

            “Why don’t you have a seat?” he suggests, closing his book. “I could put on some tea?”

            Crowley makes a noncommittal noise that definitely means no, but he takes a seat anyway and rubs his shoulder blade against the back of the chair so absently that Aziraphale knows he has not figured out what’s wrong. Aziraphale observes for another few seconds before getting to his feet, tucking his own wings in tight as he walks around the small table to get behind Crowley.

            His action must, in some fashion, alert Crowley to something, because he tenses and pulls his wings out of the way and sits up a little straighter. “I thought you were going to make tea,” he says, even though he clearly had no interest in it a moment before.

            “If you want,” Aziraphale says slowly, with plenty of room for Crowley to agree to tea before he can continue, “I can fix your feathers for you.”

            “What?” Crowley’s wings pull even tighter to him, almost defensively. Aziraphale had both expected and not expected that. He had hoped that six thousand years of companionship, even if it was not constant, might have allowed for this much trust.

            “The ones you’ve been digging at all day.” Aziraphale motions vaguely toward Crowley, knowing he’ll pick up on it as soon as it’s been pointed out. “You’re uncomfortable, and you…” He hesitates before saying  _you’ve got no one else_. “I just thought I could help.”

            Crowley regards him for a long few moments, eyes ticking over him, throat clearly working on words he was not ready to say. Slowly, slowly, he turns in his chair, presenting his back to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale can see the twisted feathers straight away. “Yeah, alright,” Crowley says quietly, the words brittle with his apprehension.

            “Right,” Aziraphale says, and then doesn’t move at all. Of course he had wondered what Crowley’s wings would feel like, what any demon’s wings would feel like, but he also knows what it means for Crowley to trust someone, anyone, enough to find out. He might as well ask a human if he could touch their soul.

            “Angel?” Crowley asks, still unmoving in front of him.

            “Right,” Aziraphale says again, and crosses the step between them. He lets out a soft breath, rubs his fingers on his thumbs to assuage his nerves, and then reaches to fix the ruffled feathers.

            They are, he thinks, as soft as they would have been before the Fall. He doesn’t say so, because Crowley is sensitive to that sort of thing, but he can’t help thinking it as he runs his fingers over the feather shaft, turning it the right way up. There’s a couple of bent ones next to it, and he smooths a little magic into it to set them right, laying them carefully in place. He can feel the heat of Crowley’s skin beneath, and he is careful not to touch.

            “What happened?” he finds himself asking.

            “Don’t know,” Crowley says, a little slower than he normally goes. “Didn’t realize anything had.”

            Aziraphale hums a sound of agreement, fingers lingering on the last feather. “Well, I’ve fixed them.”

            Crowley’s wing slacks open a little in invitation, and Aziraphale’s breath catches. Neither of them moves until Crowley clears his throat. “Would you- would you mind checking for others?”

            Heart twisting up at the soft request, Aziraphale nods even though Crowley can’t see it. “Of course,” he answers. Of course he will. Crowley needs to know he is not alone.

            So he takes the next feather between his fingers, hooking the barbs together properly and laying it back into place. He smooths a palm over the ridge of Crowley’s wing, seeking imperfections by touch, though there are surprisingly few. For as much as Crowley seems to throw himself everywhere he goes rather than walking there, he takes care of his appearance. Aziraphale doesn’t point out what a clever defense mechanism it is, because that would take admitting he had fallen for it for a long time. He had seen more vulnerability in Crowley in the last six weeks than in the last six millennia, and it had made the front so painfully obvious to him.

            By the time he reaches Crowley’s primaries, Crowley has put his head down on the edge of the table and spread his wing out over the rest of it, relaxing into the preening as Aziraphale suspects he has not in a very long time. Aziraphale does his best to not disturb him, to not break the moment, sliding his fingers down each feather in turn, whether it needs it or not. The primaries, he knows, are deeply rooted in the wing, and Crowley will feel each one.

            It’s too bad, Aziraphale finds himself thinking, that snakes don’t purr.

            “Crowley,” he murmurs a while later, when the last primary slips free of his grasp. Crowley stirs and makes a noise of acknowledgement. “Tip your wing.”

            Without question or comment, Crowley lifts his wing enough to clear the table, and tips the bottom toward the floor, bringing the lead edge close enough for Aziraphale to reach the feathers of his alula. There’s a claw beneath them, one angels do not have. It is a sharp reminder of their different worlds.

            “It’s not so bad,” Crowley says, startling Aziraphale. He’s got his head turned on his arm, watching. “Falling, I mean. It could have been.” Crowley pulls his wing away, and Aziraphale takes a step back as he folds it up to himself again. He doesn’t offer the other one. “But it’s not.”

            Aziraphale can’t imagine anything worse than Falling. “Because you’re having fun?” he asks.

            Crowley smiles like a lament. “Something like that, Angel.”

            Aziraphale knows this is important, but he cannot tell why. Still, he smiles warmly back, albeit a little uncertainly under Crowley’s intense attention. There is a moment of tension, until Aziraphale forces it to break. “I could- I could check the other, if you like. It won’t need much. Your wings are very beautiful, Crowley.”

            The look Crowley gives him, just a flash of it across his features, is so soft and gentle and full of fondness that Aziraphale finds it difficult to believe Crowley ever deserved to fall. Then it passes, and Crowley shifts in his seat to extend his other wing, giving Aziraphale access to the whole of it without reservation.

            As he sets his fingers to work among Crowley’s sleek feathers, he wonders how often Crowley will let him get away with such a task.

            He hopes it is often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now featuring [beautiful artwork](https://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/185930103383) by [Miluppa](https://miluppa.tumblr.com/post/185929588721)!
> 
> [Original Tumblr post](https://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/185481507683).


	3. Dusty Feathers (Aziraphale)

            It had been three days since he'd heard from Aziraphale, and not too far in the past, that would not have been unusual of them. It would not have been unusual to go without seeing him for ages, for over a century, at times, but the world had just barely scraped over the finish line and found it had another lap to go. Things were _tenuous_ at best, and after their brush with what should have been their exterminations, had they not been so clever, they had at least tried to check in with one another on some sort of schedule.

            Crowley told himself it was because if Aziraphale went missing, he was immediately next on the list, and he told himself that Aziraphale likely had the same reason, and he told himself that he was becoming quite terrible at lying these days. The truth was, he was _worried_. It was a very human emotion, and he didn't like it at all. Worry had never suited him, and could have done without being invented at all, in his opinion.

            Regardless of which emotions belonged in existence or not, Crowley's worry did not abate in the least when he finally picked up his phone and called Aziraphale, only to have him not answer. What was the point, he wondered, of having a phone you could take anywhere in the world, if you never bothered to answered it?

            With nothing else to do except chew on worry he didn't want in the first place, Crowley headed for the bookstore. It was a short enough drive he only had time to imagine a few hundred disastrous scenarios rather than a few thousand and when he arrived he found that nothing at all seemed to have befallen the bookstore. The lights were on through the window, and the door was unlocked when he pushed past it, trying not to think too hard about the memory of flames licking at every corner of Aziraphale's shop of treasures.

            "Aziraphale?" he called, quieter than a bookshop necessitated and louder than a library allowed. "You in here?"

            He could see light in the back room, and he crossed the shop to get to it. The door was halfway open, and it swung wide when Crowley nudged it with his foot.

            Inside sat Aziraphale, at one of the small, sturdy tables, his great white wings mantled protectively over whatever he was doing. Crowley relaxed in an instant. He had seen this before. Aziraphale had found some new (or rather, old) book which had collected all of his attention, and had forgotten there was still an entire world all around him that still went along at the same speed as before, whether or not he went with it.

            Crowley leaned against the frame of the door, crossing his arms in front of him and enjoying the strange sense of peace that came with watching Aziraphale be happy. Motes of dust hung in the dying beams of light streaming in from the window, each settling to join its brethren atop Aziraphale's open wings.

            Aziraphale's hair was mussed from his fingers and the delicate curves of his wings were dull from the fine patina of dust and his aura shone brightly with the same honest goodness it always did and he was _beautiful_ _._ Especially the part of him Crowley loved best, the just-enough-of-a-bastard-to-be-worth-knowing part that swept his wings around his possessions like a hawk on a kill, denying anyone else entrance.

            But he was also kind of a hot mess- not that Crowley had any room to talk, but at least he took care of his _wings_ , for Heaven's sake. So, after a few self-indulgent moments of soaking up Aziraphale's presence, Crowley shoved himself away from the door and stepped close enough to tap the lead edge of Aziraphale's wing, where the smallest of coverts were.

            Aziraphale didn't hiss the way Crowley might have, but he did bristle up and mantle further over his books, right up until he realized who was there and that no one had come for him or his books. "Crowley!" he exclaimed warmly, his entire demeanor opening and his wing sweeping out of the way, to allow Crowley access to the table. Dust stirred up at the motion. "When did you get here?"

            "Just now," Crowley lied, glancing at the table. It was books, which was as unsurprising as he had thought it would be. "You weren't picking up your phone. It's been days."

            Aziraphale glanced around, clearly having no idea where his phone even was. "Oh, I must have lost track of time," he explained.

            "There's rather a lot of it to keep track of," Crowley remarked. Instead of asking what had kept him so fascinated, Crowley reached over, took the edge of Aziraphale's wing between two fingers, and gave it a little wiggle. Dust swirled again, and Aziraphale had the good grace to look chagrined.

            "Yes, well, they're very good books," Aziraphale said, answering the unspoken question. He raised a wing, extending it just so with a hopeful rise of his brows.

            On one hand, Crowley knew exactly what Aziraphale was asking, even without words; just a minor miracle, just a little bit of a hand wave, and his wings would return to the same soft, clean white as usual. He'd done it before and had no qualms about doing it again, but on the other hand...

 

* * *

 

            Aziraphale tensed as soon as Crowley's palm smoothed over the ridge of his wing, taking some of the dust off with it. He didn't want to complain – it was nice, after all – but Crowley had never been that sort of forward. Angels, by and large, were not that big on wing care, and certainly not on caring for one anothers' wings, but Aziraphale knew that demons were. As solitary and untrusting and _mean_ as they were, demons were vain and practically hedonistic with regard to their wings. Crowley had told him once that it was the only worthwhile reason for him to know a demon, so that he could trade off preening the spots he couldn't reach on his own.

            But Aziraphale was not a demon, and Crowley had been alone for a while now, since even before they betrayed their own sides in light of the failing apocalypse.

            He watched as Crowley began to clean his wings, obviously stealing sidelong glances at Aziraphale to make sure he was not overstepping. He brushed gently over the lead edge, taking the majority of the dust off, and then with only minor hesitation, he began to seek out individual feathers. Each one he ran through deft fingers, coaxing the barbs together until the ragged edges obeyed him.

            It was actually, Aziraphale found himself thinking after a few minutes, quite soothing. He could feel his muscles relaxing, and his wings drooping and even his breathing began to slow and even out. He could see why demons did this, after all. It was not just a matter of cleanliness. It felt good. It might have been the _only_ thing that did, following the Fall.

            Though he rapidly found himself wishing Crowley would never stop, he only had so many feathers. Aziraphale felt like he'd been remade from warm putty, pliant and relaxed and practically ready to sleep, despite having no need to do so.

            "All done, Angel," Crowley told him, letting the last feather slip from between his fingers. He'd somehow gotten away with preening both wings, and Aziraphale must have offered the second without even noticing. Without even thinking.

            Aziraphale blinked like a cat waking from a nap, and tried to get hold of himself as he slowly folded his wings. He flashed Crowley an uncertain smile, slightly embarrassed at his lack of control. "Thank you." He didn't say _that was very kind of you_ , but he did think it. What he did say, however, was: "Would you let me return the favor?"

            Crowley hesitated, and Aziraphale's heart leapt into his belly. He had known what he was asking, and how long it must have been since anyone helped Crowley preen, but he had hoped six thousand years had shown Crowley he meant no harm. That he could be trusted, even with this, despite their sides.

            Just when he began to fear he had crossed the line, or perhaps just made Crowley aware the line existed, Crowley turned around and let one wing slack open, black and sleek and beautiful and clearly an open invitation.

            And just like that, a new tradition began.


	4. Flying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one I translated over from Tumblr, into proper fic format. Tomorrow I will be starting the new stuff!

            Once upon a time, a very long time ago indeed, they had been able to use their wings to fly. Aziraphale remembered what it was like, soaring through the boundless wilds of Heaven, racing the other angels, performing ever-increasingly difficult maneuvers. He remembered before the sun or the moon or the stars, when the only light to play over their pale feathers had been that of the Almighty, who watched them cavort and enjoy themselves.

            And then Lucifer had rebelled, and the angels who had gone along with it had been cast down and the tone of Heaven had changed from a haven to a battlefield and many of the angels that had been left had been cast into human-shaped bodies.

            Human shaped bodies that, frustratingly enough, could not survive the use of an angel's wings. If they wanted to fly, they would have to explain to the head office why they felt it was worth discorporating themselves over, and Aziraphale just didn't see Gabriel accepting _because I hadn't in a long while_ as a valid excuse.

            Aziraphale had once tried to bring it up to Crowley, who was not any less sensitive to the subject than any other related to the Fall, and it had only resulted in a row that lasted over a decade. Which was, strangely enough, one of their shorter arguments. Still, he didn't like to argue at all, if he could help it, and so he had not brought it up since.

            Which was exactly why it so surprised him when Crowley did.

            They had been sitting at their table for half an hour already, in a small town pub neither of them had ever been to before. Aziraphale could see that Crowley was having one of _those_ kinds of nights, the sort where something was wrong, perhaps desperately so, but he was not yet _ready_ to talk about it. Aziraphale had ordered and begun to eat in companionable, if tense, silence, waiting for Crowley to screw up whatever it was he needed in order to say what he wanted to say.

            Crowley was seven slightly-less-than casual drinks into the night when his reservations about sharing abandoned him and he spat out: "I miss... I _miss_ flying, you know."

            Aziraphale looked up from his meal, a little alarmed, because he had considered a thousand different reasons for Crowley to drag him out here and proceed to be moody, and not one of them was an issue over six thousand years in their past. At least, no possibilities so mundane.

            "We could take a trip," he offered carefully, remembering the last time he had tried to talk about real flying. Six millennia and Crowley was still fussed about the actual Fall.

            Crowley made a face and slouched back on his chair, clearly wondering if he'd made a mistake in bringing it up at all. "Not that kind of flying."

            Aziraphale looked him over and tried to ignore the soft flush of guilt that heated his skin. Crowley's fall from grace had not been his fault, and he missed flying too. "You meant Flying flying."

            Crowley made another face, and this one said that he was just absolutely disgusted they were having this conversation out loud, and even more so that he had started it. It was the sort of face that said he knew very well he should stop, and also that he won't. "What's the point of having wings, anyway, if you can't even use them?"

            "Would you rather have had them removed?" Aziraphale's eyes flicker to Crowley's sleek black wings where they fold protectively tight to his body. He hadn't meant for that to happen, so he pursed his lips and leaned forward on the table and waited until Crowley looked at him from beneath sulky, heavy lids. "I miss it, too."

            A pained expression crossed Crowley's face, and he dropped his gaze. Aziraphale knew he hadn't known that; he'd never admitted it, not to anyone. Barely to himself, even. Given the way Crowley looked at him, as if he wished he could change the whole of history or maybe just give something a good kick, Aziraphale realized he had never considered either that Aziraphale felt the same or that he was not alone.

            Crowley ordered another drink and Aziraphale didn't comment further. It took him another five minutes to find more words at the bottom of his glass, but Aziraphale was still there waiting when he did.

            "I miss a good thermal," Crowley finally said.

            "Me too," Aziraphale admitted. "Riding a down-draft... that was my favorite. You're not alone anymore, you know. I can help."

            Crowley winced and turtled in on himself, wings pulling so tight they nearly disappeared, and for a moment Aziraphale thought they were going to have another fight and not talk to one another for ages, which would be a real shame considering neither of them particularly had anyone else to talk to at the moment.

            "And what are you going to do about it?" Crowley asked, harsher than usual but not cold enough to start a real fight. "You're as stuck as I am."

            "Yes," Aziraphale said patiently, trying and failing to keep the sting of hurt out of his voice. He set his napkin on the table and waited for Crowley to look at him again. "But I _can_ drive a car. Your car, if you like, or we'll borrow one. I imagine sitting on top with your wings up will feel close, if I go fast enough."

            Crowley boggled at him, much the same way he had back in Rome the first time Aziraphale had suggested he was capable of tempting anyone, much less a demon, and then broke into a grin. "I don't deserve you, Angel," he said, wings slacking and his entire frame relaxing. "Well, I didn't deserve to Fall, either, but ehh what's that line, the one- you can't always get what you want, but-"

            "Sometimes you get what you need," Aziraphale finished with him, smiling fond. He really couldn't agree more.

            "That's the one," Crowley said, warm and pleased. "Shall we find a car?"


	5. Bloodfeather (Crowley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware there will be blood in this chapter.  
> Also, please enjoy my attempt at humor.  
> [Original Tumblr post](https://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/185852530908).

 

            Aziraphale rapped politely on the door to Crowley's flat in a very specific pattern, and then waited the requisite three seconds before trying the handle. He had used to wait, out of politeness, until Crowley actually answered the door, but Crowley was just as likely to answer it as not regardless of who did the knocking. Now, Aziraphale used the human gesture as more of a warning: _I'm coming in, please do not flee out the window again._

            "Crowley?" he called, peeking in through the cracked door. No answer. He pushed the door open and slipped through, making sure to lock it behind him. "Are you here?"

            He was, of course, here. He had to be. They'd spoken on the phone not fifteen minutes ago, to arrange for dinner in, and Crowley had agreed to place an order for them both. There was no scent of food hanging heavy in the air, but there was iron. The burned-copper-iron scent of a demon's blood. An icy feeling coursed through him even before he saw the blood smears on the wall.

            "Crowley!" He shouted, loud and a little desperate as he began to move quickly through the flat, searching. There had not been blood by the door, which meant he likely hadn't been taken. However, there was a smattering of it on his ornate, golden chair, and drips of it along the floor, and a handprint smeared on the corner of one wall. He must have been cut, or stabbed or-

            "Aziraphale!"

            Dizzy with the force of his relief at hearing Crowley's voice, Aziraphale hurried toward it, toward the bathroom. "Crowley? What happened?"

            Aziraphale rounded the corner and got his first glimpse of Crowley, sitting against the side of the tub, one wing hanging limply over the edge of it, and blood spattered or smeared everywhere. It was coming from his wing, and Aziraphale realized what had happened only a second before Crowley announced:

            "I broke a blood feather. A primary." He rolled his head to look at Aziraphale, golden eyes full of regret. "I'm dying."

            Aziraphale looked up at the ceiling and contained a sigh. "You're not dying."

            "I am," Crowley assured him. "I'm bleeding out."

            "You're a celestial being," Aziraphale reminded him. They weren't exactly prone to dying from minor wounds.

            "I'm discorporating," Crowley lamented.

            "You're barely bleeding, Crowley," Aziraphale informed him, leaning against the doorframe. "Why don't you just pull it out?"

            Crowley's wing twitched in a truly pathetic attempt to lift as he looked over at it. "And ruin their perfection with a missing space?"

            Sometimes, Aziraphale thought with infinite patience, Crowley really made him want to blaspheme. "Give me your wing."

            With far more dramatic flair than was at all called for, Crowley dragged his still-bleeding wing from within the tub and hefted it up to where Aziraphale could reach without having to climb all over him to do so. Aziraphale caught the wing bone near the alula and used the fingers of one hand to spread Crowley's primaries out in midair. He had, indeed, smashed one of his new blood feathers as it was coming in, and the mangled wreck was seeping blood that smelled faintly of sulfur.

            "I'm going to pull it out," he said, a half a second before he brought his hand up to do exactly that. Crowley's wing jerked in his hand, but not hard enough to actually escape his grip.

            "No, wait!" Crowley begged, sitting up a little straighter. "No nonono, wait, you can't just pull it!"

            Aziraphale gave him a slow blink. "Why not?" he said. His hands were getting sticky with blood. "I'm perfectly capable of-"

            "No, no, ahhgh!" Crowley tugged on his wing again, squirming like a child trying to escape bath time. "You've got to numb it or numb me or do something, angel! Do you have any idea how much that's going to hurt?"

            "You are literally a-"

            "I know what I am!" Crowley interrupted, tugging again and looking like he was about to start flailing, despite that he obviously needed help to do something he was not ready or willing to do on his own.

            "Crowley."

            Crowley froze instantly at the tone of voice. He swallowed and looked up at Aziraphale and for just a split second, Aziraphale felt sorry for giving him that little jolt of fear. But the feather had to be pulled or it would just continue to bleed, and if it did that long enough, Crowley might _actually_ be in danger.

            "I am going to pull this feather out," Aziraphale said slowly, each word a command in itself. The words _and you're going to let me_ trailed unspoken in their wake.

            Although Crowley cringed in upon himself, his wing went limp in Aziraphale's grip and his eyes closed in preparation. Aziraphale knew it would hurt. It would hurt _a lot_. But he also knew it had to be done, and that Crowley was not going to do it quickly, and that at least since he was here, he could properly heal the wound left behind. Demons could bring things back to life just as surely as angels, but they had lost their healing touches.

            He wrapped his hand around the thick shaft of Crowley's primary and Crowley gave a pained whimper, entire body tensing. The whole thing had to feel like a raw nerve or an open wound already. Aziraphale reminded himself that this would be a blessing of sorts, one of the few he could still bestow upon Crowley, and then he held onto Crowley's bone in one hand and feather in the other, and separated the two with an awful noise and an even worse sensation.

            Crowley _hissed_ , his wing yanking from Aziraphale's grip easily this time, pulling close to his body. The bleeding had started fresh, but there was no longer a hollow tube for it to flow freely out of. It would heal.

            Aziraphale laid the huge, busted feather on the bathroom sink and sank gracefully to his knees beside Crowley, who shifted away from him a little bit. "Give me your wing," he requested again, gently.

            "So you can pull another one?" Crowley asked, but his wing's patagium was already sliding into Aziraphale's hand. He flared out his primaries so that Aziraphale could reach the new wound. It looked bad, with jagged edges and a fresh well of crimson.

            "That's not fair," Aziraphale told him, almost a chastisement, as he turned the wing in his hands to get a better look. As gently as he was able, he touched the wound and earned another little hiss from Crowley. "Hold still. This is going to hurt, and then it will get better."

            Crowley did as he was told as Aziraphale licked a finger and smoothed it over Crowley's torn skin. Crowley flinched a little but didn't pull away as the skin cauterized. In their true forms, Aziraphale's actions would have done actual damage, but filtered through both their mortal bodies, it only burned a little. He did it again, and then a third time, until the wound had sealed entirely.

            "There," he said softly, releasing Crowley's wing.

            Crowley pulled it back toward himself, not quite folding it, and gave Aziraphale a grateful, if sullen, look. "Thank you."

            "It will grow back, Crowley," Aziraphale told him, flicking a hand to clean the bathroom before clambering down onto the floor beside him. "What happened, anyway?"

            The immediacy with which Crowley looked extremely nonchalant spoke of an embarrassment Aziraphale was not sure he wanted to hear about, but before he could dismiss the question, Crowley admitted: "I hit it on my chair."

            "You- That great big one in your office?" Aziraphale asked incredulously. It was awfully hard not to see such a large object coming, but he didn't say that. It did explain the start of the blood trail, though. "What on Earth were you doing?"

            Crowley's guilty look intensified and he refused to meet Aziraphale's eyes. He mumbled something Aziraphale didn't catch and, when Aziraphale just raised a brow at him, said loudly: "Dancing!"

  
  



	6. Dyed Wings (Aziraphale)

 

 

            “Pink!” Aziraphale says suddenly, lurching forward in his seat so fast Crowley is certain that this will be the time he gets to see the angel pitch right out of it. However, Aziraphale catches himself on one arm of his chair and manages to keep his drink in his hand.

            “Pink?” Crowley asks. He hadn’t said anything that requires the answer pink. At least, he doesn’t think so. Maybe he had. He tastes his mouth, but it doesn’t taste like any questions.

            “My wings,” he says, insistently.

            “They’re white, angel,” Crowley says, and then leans up off the floor to look and make sure, because it’s been a long night so far. “Yeah, white.”

            “So are pigeons,” Aziraphale tells him, so matter-of-factly that for a second Crowley takes it in stride that of course pigeons are white and that this is a perfectly coherent answer.

            It is not, and when his brain catches up to the words, he struggles up into a sitting position. “What’re you on about?”

            Aziraphale gives him a very patient look that is completely undeserved, as Crowley believes he is being quite the reasonable one here, and explains: “Pigeon wings… are white. Except when you dye them pink.”

            Oh, Crowley is much too drunk for this conversation, but he thinks that it is the only way to  _have_  this conversation, so he rubs one hand to his temple. “Wh- s…y- You want to, what? Dye your wings pink?”

            “It doesn’t have to be pink.” Aziraphale straightens a little and spreads a wing for Crowley to see, looking at it himself as well. “Maybe a rainbow. I am fond of them.”

            “Not a rainbow,” Crowley says. “We’d be sober before we finished.”

            “Can’t have that,” Aziraphale agrees, hiding a smile and folding his wing back.

            “What about blue?” Crowley asks. “Match your tartan.”

            “Oh dear, I think tartan would take a lot longer than a rainbow,” Aziraphale says, face scrunching a little at the thought.

            “No, not- No, you’re daft. Just blue, like your shirt, to match your- look, do you want to do this or not?” Crowley finishes, brows up as he looks expectantly up at Aziraphale.

            “No,” he says, and then shakes his head. “Yes. Yes alright, you’ve convinced me.”

            Crowley thinks he did nothing of the sort, but he is  _itching_  to get his fingers in Aziraphale’s feathers so he’s not going to argue. “We don’t have anything to- Oh. Really?”

            Aziraphale passes him the jar of blue Kool-Aid he’s miracled with a flick of his wrist. Crowley doesn’t ask how he was so ready to do that, he just accepts the gift and somehow manages to get vertical without tipping. He offers a hand to help Aziraphale up, and they stumble like children up the stairs to the small bathroom. Crowley folds his wings into ether to free up space, and lets Aziraphale go in first. He does not close the door; neither of them like feeling trapped.

            Aziraphale runs the water in the claw-footed tub until it is halfway full, and then Crowley stirs in the powder. It smells fantastic. Blue raspberry flavor was one of Crowley’s inventions, and unlike many of his creations which had inconvenienced him as payback for being invented, he was very fond of blue raspberry.

            “It’s very blue,” Aziraphale comments, watching the water swirl. “It won’t be too blue?”

            Crowley shoots him a look. “How would I know? How many wings do you think I’ve dyed?”

            “Your own at least!” Aziraphale protests, and Crowley gives him a scandalized look. He doesn’t  _dye_  his wings, he  _wills_  them this color. It’s an important distinction. It’s a very powerful distinction- it takes imagination.

            “That’s different,” is what he says. “I think the point is to be blue anyway, right?”

            “The  _point._ ” Aziraphale stares into the water. Crowley waits for the rest of it, but it appears that was all Aziraphale had planned to say on the subject.

            “Put your wing in, then,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale kneels next to the tub and drapes his wing into it slowly.

            The too-blue water swirls up and into his feathers as he goes, and Crowley moves around to behind him. Aziraphale looks curiously over his shoulder, seemingly unafraid to have this particular demon at his back. Crowley dips his fingers into the water and begins to work the color into the small feathers that won’t reach into the tub. Aziraphale relaxes into the gentle, almost-preening.

            It takes a while and by the time they have gotten through both wings, Aziraphale looks a little bit like a drowned, blue rat. His wings are sodden and he makes upset tuts about it until Crowley fetches towels and begins to dry them out by hand. When they are damp rather than wet, they retreat to the bedroom, and Aziraphale stretches out on his belly with his wings open to dry and Crowley sits beside him against the headboard and runs gentle fingers over his feathers, making sure they fluff out again they way they ought to.

            Several hours later, when they are a little more sober and a lot less awake, Aziraphale twitches his wing off of Crowley’s lap, folds it into the ether, and rolls onto his back. It is not graceful. Crowley cannot blame him; his own head is spinning, too. “Where y’going?” He is cold without the warmth of Aziraphale’s wing over him.

            Aziraphale makes a pitiful noise and manages to extricate himself from the bed, and disappear out the door. Crowley sighs and lets his head thunk back against the headboard, which is a mistake that sends it spinning again. He should sober up the right way, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He’ll get to it eventually, when his head actually starts to  _hurt_.

            “Water,” Aziraphale says from the doorway, and Crowley opens eyes shut like they’ve been glued to see him holding two glasses of water. He sets one in Crowley’s hands, and sits on the edge of the bed with his own. They drink in silence for a few minutes before Aziraphale pulls his wings back to reality and stretches them out, rotating the lead edge down so he can see the top of it. He looks mildly surprised. “Really, Crowley?”

            Crowley grins. He doesn’t have to ask what Aziraphale’s asking him. He’s worked all night on this without saying a word yet. “It was your idea, after all,” he says. “How can I say no to temptation?”

            “I suppose you can’t,” Aziraphale agrees. He sets his glass on the night stand, pulls his wings forward, and lays sideways on the bed, his head on Crowley’s knees. He flops his wings out, spread eagle. “But tartan wings? It’s just not very intimidating is it? I’ll have to wash it out.”

            Crowley decides, very wisely, not to ruin the moment by telling him it won’t wash out, and that he’ll have to wait until he moults. Aziraphale will figure it out, eventually. For now… Crowley settles back against the headboard and just enjoys being present with Aziraphale. They can worry about the rest in the morning proper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original tumblr post](https://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/186048715808).
> 
> I enjoyed this one immensely, I love drunken shenanigans so much.


	7. Wing Pets (Crowley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little prompt fill for a [Tumblr Prompt](https://goodomensprompts.tumblr.com/post/188148773651) at the [GoodOmensPrompts Tumblr](https://goodomensprompts.tumblr.com)!

            Aziraphale was off the couch before he’d even registered what exactly had woken him. Another shout came from the direction of Crowley’s bedroom, and Aziraphale staggered in that directly, adrenaline flushing through him and his wings manifesting for a fight. Even as he reached for the door’s handle, his other hand flicked a sword into existence, and he burst into the room at the ready.

            But Crowley was alone.

            The room was dark and empty and nothing was out of place, save the covers Crowley had shed in his writhing. Aziraphale stood in the doorway, confused and a little bit bleary still, and tried to parse the pile of limbs and feathers he could see on the bed. Crowley’s wings, normally hidden, had manifested as though he were in the battle Aziraphale had expected to see.

            Then Crowley gave a pained moan that dissolved into a whimper, and Aziraphale dropped the sword back into the ether and crossed over to the bedside. From that close, he could see that Crowley’s eyes were still closed, a sheen of sweat on his skin, and glistening streaks on his face from crying.

            “Oh,” Aziraphale said gently, unsure what to do.

            Humans had nightmares like this sometimes. Some of them wanted to be touched and some of them didn’t and some of them wouldn’t notice either way. He didn’t know which Crowley would want, but when he touched the bend of Crowley’s wing, Crowley froze stiff.

            Slowly, he drew his hand over the inky feathers, and felt some of the tension ease in the limb. He repeated the action once more, and then again, each stroke of his hand bringing a little more relaxation. Aziraphale tentatively knelt on the edge of the bed, worried about waking him, but when there was no reaction, he folded his own wings away and climbed to sit just beside him.

            As soon as he started to lean back against the headboard, Crowley shifted, turning to curl his body around Aziraphale’s folded and crossed legs. The wing Aziraphale had been petting dragged up over his lap protectively, the edge of it sitting snug against his belly. He smiled fondly and set both hands atop the wing, resting over the thick, warm muscles beneath the soft line of coverts.

            Crowley settled, breath even and steady now, and Aziraphale let his own head tip back to rest against the headboard. He hadn’t intended to sleep tonight, but he’d already fallen asleep on the couch, and the near-end of the world had exhausted Crowley too, and this was… comfortable. Safe.

            He closed his eyes and let one hand drift lazily over Crowley’s wing, following the line of it in a soothing motion until he, too, fell into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you have enjoyed my story, please let me know! Encouragement is, after all, what makes creation go 'round.


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